


Take the Time

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [34]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Matchmaker TARDIS, Oblivious!Twelve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5370428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been a week, give or take, without any sleep, and she’s fine, she’s just…itchy, a little. Metaphorically speaking. (Post-"Sleep No More")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take the Time

**Author's Note:**

> for the-pardoner, who requested: Clara has a month without needing sleep because of that dumb Morpheus pod thing. She's soon totally bored and craving some after-dark adventures with Twelve

Clara has to admit, this is kind of amazing. She’s never been this productive. You can get so much more done when you’re not sleeping half your life away. She has zero unread emails in her inbox, no unsent replies. No plant in her apartment is unwatered, no Pinterest-inspired craft project unfinished. Her marking is done, her nails are freshly painted, her outfits for the next two weeks are planned out. 

It’s 4 am. She’s not tired, not even a little bit. And she’s out of things to do.

“I’m not bored,” she says out loud, looking around proudly at her sparkling-clean bathroom. “I just need a new hobby.” _  
_

* * *

_I told you so,_ the Doctor says, sighing and shrugging and looking melodramatically sad-sack even over videophone.

_Not instead of you. In addition to you. Not getting off that easy, Mister._

* * *

She tries reading, that doesn’t work. She can’t sit still, can’t get herself in the right headspace. Running, she can go running, although not all the time, and not at night. She tries cooking (nope, still crap), buys a make-your-own decorative stepping stone kit (no artistic ability, no actual garden to put the stone in), briefly takes on the mantle of telling everyone on the comments section of the Daily Mail website that they are Wrong (an error), stares up at the ceiling (how exciting).

She’s got work, at least. Coal Hill and UNIT, UNIT being more conducive to late-night flashes of inspiration and information requests. And she’s got Wednesday. A very long Wednesday spent saving a backwater mining outpost on an asteroid adrift somewhere off Gamma Leonis from a horde of robot-elephant-things.

She’s exhausted, she’s not tired. There’s a difference. It’s been a week, give or take, without any sleep, and she’s fine, she’s just…itchy, a little. Metaphorically speaking.

The Doctor brings her home, because that’s what she usually wants. He looks at her expectantly, waiting for the traditional departure routine.

“I was thinking. I could stay here, for a little bit. If that’s all right with you?” Not sure why she’s nervous.

“Of course! Mi casa es su casa. You know I - ” He breaks off, swallows, grins crookedly. “You know you can stay here, whenever, for however long you like.”

* * *

There’s less to do here than there is in her flat, which doesn’t seem right. The TARDIS is infinite, and she’s seen impossible, magical things here, she knows for a fact that there are activities somewhere. A race track, an arcade, a log flume. But every door she opens reveals a room filled with fuck-all. A boot cupboard, once, that was exciting. Filing cabinets. Neatly-wrapped parcels of sand, obscurely. Hallways on hallways and the only places that seem to be here are her bedroom, the Doctor’s bedroom, the console room, and the kitchen.

Tea it is, then.

He’s puttering around with some system or other when she shuffles in. “Ta,” he says, gratefully accepting the mug, still half-tangled in wiring. “Can’t sleep?”

“Not since the Morpheus device.”

Something dark flickers over his face. She supposes it is sort of troubling, not sleeping for so long. Whatever it is messing up her brain. “So when you said you needed a hobby.”

“I need something to dooo,” she whines. “Can we go somewhere? Please?”

“You need to rest. Hell, even I can’t go non-stop. Too much and I start making mistakes, start getting sloppy. And it’s like having Christmas every day of the year, you need some days that aren’t Christmas to make Christmas feel special.” He eases his way free of the conduit, stands and faces her. Very earnest, a little bit troubled.

“At least unlock some rooms here that aren’t storage lockers,” she says.

“Haven’t locked anything,” he replies, eyebrow raised. “The TARDIS might be trying to make a suggestion.”

“A suggestion.”

“For what to do?” He slurps loudly on his tea.

“But the only - oh.” The sentient time capsule, the sentient _telepathic_ time capsule, has read her mind and shuttled her down a path to, well. Unless she’s misinterpreting, but at this point she’s so completely over the whole situation, so what, why not. “You wanna have sex?”

The Doctor spits his mouthful of tea back into the mug. “Pardon?”

“The TARDIS knows us, and she’s put us together, and d'you know, I’m usually good at ignoring this but I have absolutely nothing to distract me now. It’s frustrating, Doctor, it is so very frustrating. And I’ve seen the way you look at me. So c'mon, let’s fuck. It’ll be like that time on Carpathia, minus the Pon-Farr spores.”

She waits. He stares at her, unblinking. The moment threatening to turn hopelessly awkward.

“Right,” he says finally. Cautious, a little like a deer in the headlights. “Okay. Ah. You lead?”

“Always do.” She grins and grabs his hand.

(The TARDIS eventually relaxes her ban on anything not filing cabinets or fucking, at least slightly. That really is a fantastic log flume.)


End file.
